


Collected Tumblr Fic

by astano



Category: Glee
Genre: F/F, F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-11-29
Updated: 2014-12-07
Packaged: 2017-11-19 20:25:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 20
Words: 20,489
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/577299
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/astano/pseuds/astano
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For easier reading, perhaps. Multiple pairings. Mostly smut.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Quinn/Shelby - Spanking (NC-17)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quinn/Shelby. For a GKM prompt that basically required spanking as punishment turning into something more. No plot, just porn.

“You wouldn’t dare!” Quinn says, her voice controlled, despite the way her heart’s beating furiously, because she just can’t believe Shelby just threatened to  _spank_ her of all things.

Shelby’s eyes narrow just slightly. “Oh, really?” She asks.

“I’m your student.”

“No, what you are is a disrespectful teenager who deserves to be taught some respect.”

Quinn half turns, ready to storm out—because she doesn’t have to take this, not from anyone, and especially not from Shelby—when Shelby grabs her wrist, yanking her back into the room. “I didn’t tell you you could leave,” she hisses.

Before Quinn really knows what’s happening, Shelby’s pushing her face down on her desk. Quinn whimpers a little as her cheek hits the cool surface because this is just  _not_  happening, but she’s not doing anything to move away—she can’t even seem to make her legs work for her because they won’t stop trembling.

The first slap, over her clothes, doesn’t really hurt, but she whimpers from the shock of it, her hands twitching against the desk.

Shelby’s muttering something under her breath that Quinn can’t make out over the rushing of blood through her ears, but she gives up trying when Shelby roughly pushes up her skirt and all Quinn can feel is the rush of cold air around her legs. She tugs her lip between her teeth, turns her head so her forehead is pressing hard against the desk, hiding her face from Shelby’s gaze, and waits.

The next slap is harder, and Quinn’s breath leaves her body in a rush the moment Shelby’s hand connects with her ass. It’s quickly followed by more, raining down on one cheek, then the other, and Quinn can feel tears prickling the corner of her eyes, but she’s not stopping Shelby. She knows she could move, could stand up and leave the room, but she’s not.

She  _wants_  this.

God, the thought startles her, but it’s true. Whether it’s through some fucked up feeling of deserving punishment for her multitude of sins or something  _else_  (which is even more problematic), she doesn’t know, but despite the pain—the hot itching under her skin every time Shelby’s hand makes contact—she’s raising herself into the blows, offering herself for each strike of Shelby’s palm against her ass.

The noise of the slaps echoes around the empty classroom, competing only with the sound of her harsh breathing, each ragged inhale and exhale seemingly amplified a thousand times. There’s a twisting, hot and desperate feeling churning in her stomach, a tightening in her muscles, and she knows that feeling, knows what’s going to happen if Shelby continues for much longer.

Shelby must sense it too, might even be able to see the dampness of her panties, because she stops, and Quinn hears her take a step back, legs bumping against one of the other desks in the room.

Quinn dares looks then, turning her head over her shoulder to meet Shelby’s gaze. Her eyes are wide and dark and her chest is rising and falling just as fast as Quinn’s own and Quinn realises she isn’t the only one who wants this.

“Please,” she says, when it becomes clear Shelby isn’t going to do anything. “Oh, God, please don’t stop.” The sound of her own voice startles Quinn, so small and with an edge of desperation that she’s never heard before, but it has the desired effect of moving Shelby to action.

She steps forward again, reaching out to cup Quinn’s ass over her panties, stroking her through the thin material. Quinn whimpers then her breath catches in her throat, coming out like a choked sob, when Shelby slides her hand down, playing fingers briefly over soaked cotton.

The touch is gone too soon, but then Shelby’s grasping at the edge of her panties and pulling them down until they drop freely, pooling around her ankles. She barely has time to register the feel of cool air against her heated skin before Shelby’s spanking her again.

The sound’s louder now that it’s skin against skin and the sting of each slap more intense, like a white hot, throbbing pulse that’s shooting through her entire body.

“Oh, God,” she says again, high-pitched, desperate. “ _Harder_.” 

Quinn’s cheeks flush at the demand, but then Shelby does hit harder, lowers her hand slightly, so each blow catches just under Quinn’s ass. It’s almost too much, but the feeling twisting in her stomach grows quickly, until she pushes back one last time, shuddering violently and crying out loudly as her orgasm surges through her.

Shelby’s fingers stroke soothingly against her ass as she comes down, almost like she knows anything else would be too much right now and Quinn rubs a shaky hand over her face, still not quite able to believe what just happened. When her legs feel steady enough to hold her weight, she straightens and turns slightly to face Shelby.

“You don’t tell anyone about this,” Shelby says, and despite knowing she really has nothing to fear, that she wouldn’t be the one in trouble if this ever got out, Quinn nods her head in agreement. She won’t tell anyone, wouldn’t even know where to begin, how to explain that she just allowed herself to be spanked and enjoyed every second of it. No, this will stay between the two of them.

“Good.” The hardness to Shelby’s voice has dissipated slightly with Quinn’s agreement. “Now get out of my classroom,” she says. “And if I ever see you act like that again…”

Shelby’s words hang in the air and Quinn nods, quickly pulling up her panties and fixing her skirt. A flush rises in her cheeks at the thought of what might happen if she  _does_  push Shelby again and despite the fact she’s still trembling slightly from the force of her orgasm, something not unlike anticipation starts to beat in her chest.


	2. Rachel/Santana - Dance class partners (PG-13)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rachel, Santana, dance class partners, NOT au - prompted by ratherembarrassing

Santana hasn’t exactly been doing much since she came to New York. Most days are spent sort of moping around the apartment, waiting for Kurt or Rachel to get home so she has someone to talk with. She is at least trying to keep the place clean and tidy for them, because she’s not completely heartless and they both have really busy schedules. But she knows she really needs to start looking for some temporary work at the very least, because her mom’s money isn’t going to last her forever.

It’s just… she still doesn’t know exactly what she wants to do. She left Louisville because she never really wanted to go there in the first place, and she wasn’t enjoying it, but she’s thought about looking into courses at Tisch, maybe taking some acting and dancing classes there or something. It’s a big thing to decide, though, and with everything that’s happened over the last few months, she just kind of wants some time to herself first.

Kurt and Rachel are great, but after a couple of months, start to prod her a little about her plans. She has to bite back the urge to tell them it’s none of their business, because she knows they’re only trying to be good friends.

When Rachel suggests she come to classes with her for a week or so to see if she’d actually like Tisch—because, as Rachel put it, there can’t be that much difference between the curricula of performing arts schools—she really can’t say no.

It’s how she finds herself sitting on the sidelines of Rachel’s dance class, wondering just how Rachel manages to put up with her bitch of a dance professor first thing on a Monday morning. The woman has serious issues, in her opinion, and if it wasn’t for the fact that Rachel had told her to behave (and that’s new, because just  _when_  did she start taking instructions from Rachel?), she’d be giving Ms. July a piece of her mind—Lima Heights style.

Seriously, the woman has done nothing but rip into Rachel for the entirety of the class, and while Santana understands to concept of tough love—Coach Sylvester was a master at it—there’s a difference between laying into an entire team or class and singling out just one person.

Still, Rachel seems to be dealing with it okay, if the set of her jaw and the look of determination in her eyes is anything to go by.

They’re learning the Rhumba, which is something Santana can dance in her sleep because she and her brother had spent hours when they were kids watching dance competitions on TV and practicing the moves with each other—okay, she’d spent hours watching and then forced her brother to dance with her, because how was she ever going to get good if she didn’t have a partner?

So, Santana’s eyes sweep around the class as they all follow Ms. July’s lead, practicing the individual steps that will eventually be put together in a partnered dance. And Rachel really isn’t half bad, Santana thinks, her gaze lingering on the girl for a little while longer. She most certainly isn’t the worst person there.

Santana’s snapped out of her staring— _critiquing_ , she amends—by the sound of Ms. July loudly clapping her hands together at the front of the room.

“Right, that’s enough of that,” Ms. July says. “For the last half hour, you’ll be working with a partner.” She scans the class quickly, then her eyes settle on Rachel. “We seem to be a man down today, Schwimmer, why don’t you partner with your friend over there. I can’t imagine she’s any worse than you are.”

Santana grits her teeth against the words that immediately come to the forefront of her mind. Instead, at Rachel’s slight nod of her head, gets up and walks across the room.

“Thanks,” Rachel says when Santana’s standing in front of her. “Usually she just makes someone sit out, which I really don’t see the point of—she could easily partner with them herself.”

“S’ok,” Santana replies, then gets into the correct starting position. Ms. July’s implied insult has left her with something to prove and she’s determined to wipe that superior smirk off her face.

“Hey, wait,” Rachel says after a second. “Why do you get to lead?” She’s got this pouty expression on her face that Santana almost finds cute.

“Do you even know how to?” Santana asks, raising her eyebrows.

Rachel seems to consider the question for a second, then her face drops further into a pout and Santana has to do some serious work to keep the smile off her face at Rachel’s expression. “Well, no,” Rachel says finally. “But I don’t like the fact that you just assumed you would be leading.”

Santana lets out a huff that’s about equal parts amusement and exasperation, then grabs at Rachel’s hand. “Here,” she says. “Just dance. We’re gonna show your bitch of a teacher what’s what.”

Rachel’s eyes widen slightly, as if she’s in some way scandalised by Santana’s remark, but Santana knows she’s used worse descriptors herself to describe the woman.

The music starts again, then, and Ms. July’s voice is urging them on from the front of the room, but Santana pays no attention. Their bodies start to move, and Santana’s initial impression that Rachel wasn’t half bad is proven right when the girl effortlessly follows her into a twist.

They look good, Santana knows that, maybe not the best, because one lesson and a childhood of copying moves from the TV isn’t enough to achieve that, but definitely above the level that would produce ridicule. Still, she can see Ms. July eyeing them critically and narrows her eyes, putting an extra sway in her hips and daring the woman to say anything.

“You’re really quite good,” Rachel says suddenly, and Santana looks back down at her. She’s got a smile on her face and seems to be enjoying herself and Santana can’t help but grin back.

“You sound surprised,” she says, then extends her arm out as Rachel moves away from her for a beat. “I’m awesome.”

Rachel doesn’t say anything in response, so Santana takes that to mean that yes, she is awesome.

By the end of the class, they’re both slightly flushed and Santana can’t help the thought that runs through her mind that Rachel looks  _good_  like this; breathing just a little too fast, eyes wide, hair a little messed up.

She looks exactly how she might look after—

Okay, she’s really not going to finish that thought.

“Thank you again,” Rachel says a few seconds later, when she’s grabbed her things and they’re heading out of class. Santana just nods absently in response. “Perhaps you’d consider helping me prepare for next week’s lesson?”

“Uh. Sure,” Santana replies, still only halfway following the conversation.

“Great!” Rachel says, her excitement evident in the way she’s practically bouncing along beside Santana. “We’re studying the Tango next. I’m sure I can find some instructional videos on Youtube, so we can get started this evening.”

Santana’s eyes widen momentarily as she considers just exactly what she’s gotten herself into. This is not something that’s going to end well. Not at all.


	3. Brittany/Santana/Rachel - dirty talk (NC-17)

Santana doesn’t know who handed over the microphone to Rachel, whoever it was should have really known better, because there isn’t a hope in hell of anyone getting it back from her any time soon. Not that it really matters. She’s quite comfortable snuggled up under a blanket in the loveseat with Brittany. Good thing about being out and proud and whatever: snuggle time whenever she wants it and not a fuck to be given.

So. Brittany and a blanket and arms that are wrapped around her waist, pulling her close. She’s having a pretty good time, even with Rachel hogging the spotlight and dancing around like the crazy person she is.

And so what if Santana’s idle watching of the scene causes her to wonder—not for the first time—just  _how_  it’s possible for someone so short to have such ridiculously long legs. And while she’s staring, she can’t help but notice that every time Rachel dips and turns, her skirt inches up a little further, and occasionally, Santana notices a brief flash of red panties that might just cause a slight flush in her cheeks.

Brittany shifts slightly under her, and Santana turns her head to the side, meeting eyes that are staring at her with such a knowing look in them that, fuck, she knows she’s busted. But then Brittany just grins and dips her head to suck briefly on her jaw, just below her ear. Santana squirms a little, because Brittany fucking _knows_  what that does to her, and this isn’t the time or the place.

“You think she’s hot, don’t you?” Brittany asks, voice low, hot against her ear. Santana just lets out a helpless little grunt, because she is  _really_  not going to answer a question that is so obviously asking for trouble. “It’s okay that you think that,” Brittany continues. “I kinda think she’s hot, too.”

“Britt,” Santana says, and she doesn’t know where the waver in her voice came from, but it’s there, and by the smirk that spreads across Brittany’s face, she noticed it too.

“Shh. Don’t think,” Brittany says, and Santana can feel one of Brittany’s hands moving now, sliding down her thigh until it reaches the hem of her dress, then pushing back up and under, resting lightly on the skin with her thumb sweeping back and forth as she continues speaking. “You always think too much, Santana. Just watch and listen.”

Brittany’s head dips again, nuzzling into her neck, and the movement pushes Santana’s gaze back to the front of the room. To where Rachel’s still jumping around on that goddamn stage. It’s wrong, it’s so fucking wrong, but when Brittany’s teeth graze against her skin and her eyes are sweeping up and down Rachel’s legs, watching the play of muscles as she moves around, Santana can’t at all help the quiet gasp that releases from her throat.

“That’s it, baby,” Brittany mumbles, and Santana can feel the hand on her thigh inching up slowly. She covers it with her own hand, lightly grasping at Brittany’s long fingers as they scratch at her skin. But, fuck, she has no idea if she wants to pull their joined hands away or just force Brittany to move faster. It doesn’t matter though, because when Brittany starts speaking again, she loses all sense of _everything_.

“What do you think about when you’re watching her, Santana?” Brittany asks. “Have you thought about kissing her?” Santana doesn’t answer, just breathes out shakily. “Think about it, Santana. Think about pushing her up against that wall over there and just  _taking_  her.”

Santana’s fingers tighten reflexively around Brittany’s as images flash through her mind, and  _god_ , it’s good. She whimpers quietly and Brittany chuckles, inching their fingers further upwards. “She’d be so wet for you, Santana,  _dripping_ , and begging you to fuck her.”

Santana’s hand drops as Brittany finally reaches the edge of her panties. She’s never been more grateful for wearing a dress that barely covers her ass than at this second, because there’s no barrier between herself and Brittany’s fingers except the flimsy material at the front of her panties. Brittany slides just under the edge of them, teasing the soaked material away from her skin and Santana shudders and tips her head back against the cushion behind her, eyes fluttering closed.

“Can you see her?” Brittany asks, and Santana nods almost imperceptibly before flicking out her tongue to moisten dry lips. “Hands pushing down on your shoulders, until you’re on your knees in front of her. And you’re so good on your knees, Santana. I think Rachel would agree with me.”

Santana bites down on her bottom lip, barely stifling the groan that wants to come out, because she  _can_ see it. And it’s so clear in her mind, Rachel pushing her down, baring herself,  _begging_  for her tongue, fingers,  _anything_.

The images, Brittany’s words, everything is just all too much, and when fingers slide over the front of her panties, brushing by her clit, Santana trembles helplessly in Brittany’s arms.

“Please—Brittany, please. Just—”

Brittany ignores her, instead, she lets out this groan by Santana’s ear that echoes all the way through her body before murmuring, “You’d be so, so hot together.” As she speaks, her hand cups Santana more firmly, but it’s still not enough. Santana rocks into the touch as much as she dares, and it’s not a lot, but it’s  _something_ , and, fuck, she’s wound so tight by now that it’s not going to take much of anything to push her over.

What finally does it is Brittany slipping her panties to the side and finding her clit with the pads of two fingers. She strokes in quick circles and whispers, “Do you think she’d scream your name when you make her come, Santana?” And Santana’s just  _gone_. Her eyes squeeze shut to thoughts of Rachel bucking against her, calling her name, coming on her mouth, and she grasps desperately at the edge of the seat, locking her muscles against the force of her orgasm and praying to god no one is paying them any attention.

Brittany holds her, murmurs low in her ear until the aftershocks have faded and she feels like it’s safe to open her eyes again. When she does, they immediately land on the stage—on Rachel—and Santana trails her gaze lazily up Rachel’s body. It’s not until she reaches Rachel’s face that she realises Rachel is staring at them. Her eyes are wide with apparent shock, but Santana’s pretty sure there’s something else there as well, because there’s a definite flush to her cheeks. She arches her eyebrow in challenge, but Rachel just blushes then quickly looks away.

Santana turns to Brittany and presses a soft kiss to her lips. “Do you think,” she murmurs as she pulls away, but doesn’t even finish before Brittany’s responding with, “We’ll have to ask her. But who would turn down the two hottest girls in the whole of Ohio?”

And as Santana settles back into Brittany’s arms, she can’t help but think Brittany is right.


	4. Quinn/Brittany - Innovative Methods (R)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quinn teaches Brittany math using sex.

Quinn had worked out pretty quickly that the thing about Brittany is that in order to help her remember something, you have to come up with a way to either make her care about it or make it fun. It’s why she’s an expert at cat diseases, why she never has any problem remembering important dates like birthdays or anniversaries and why she absolutely cannot remember a single mathematical equation.

She’s not quite sure how that knowledge exactly translated into what’s happening right now—but Brittany managed solid C’s on her last two tests, so it’s obviously something that’s working.  
  
Brittany’s lying on her front, while Quinn draws letters and numbers on her back. Brittany’s shirt was discarded a while ago, because it was impeding her ability to feel the light strokes of Quinn’s fingers. They’ve done the easy shapes—Brittany got the formula for a square’s surface area in one try and a rectangle after only a short while of thinking about it.  
  
This one’s seeming tricky, though, and Quinn tries again, fingers lightly tracing two vertical lines with curves at the end, then joining them across the top. Brittany shifts under her at the light touch and shakes her head slightly. “I don’t know,” she says.  
  
“It’s not a number, is it?” Quinn asks, and Brittany shakes her head. “Or a letter?” Again, Quinn sees Brittany’s head shake in the negative. “So what is it?”  
  
Suddenly, Brittany whips her head around, almost dislodging Quinn from her side. “Pi,” she says. “It’s pi!”  
  
Quinn chuckles at Brittany’s exultation and nods. “Ready for the rest of the formula?”  
  
Brittany immediately settles back down, presenting herself for Quinn to continue. She quickly guesses the r  and the small number two, putting the equation together.  
  
-  
  
The first time Brittany manages a B minus on a paper, she brings it over to show Quinn, throwing arms around her and pressing an enthusiastic kiss to Quinn’s cheek. Quinn blushes because they’re in the middle of the hallway, but when Brittany grabs her hand, swinging it between them as they walk to class, she really can’t help but become infected by her happiness.  
  
Later that evening, Brittany kisses her properly, and Quinn’s surprised by how easily she lets herself be kissed.  
  
-  
  
When they’re studying, kisses that are now otherwise traded freely, become something of a currency.  
  
A correct answer earns Brittany the right to request Quinn’s mouth on her body wherever she wishes. The more difficult the question, the longer Quinn stays put.  
  
It’s not long until Brittany’s gasping out the quadratic equation to the feel of Quinn’s lips closing around her clit.  
  
-  
  
One time, Brittany buys some chocolate body paint, and plots the perfect graphs for each of the trigonometric functions on Quinn’s stomach, taking great delight in cleaning her up between each one.  
  
By the end, Quinn’s torn between pride and the desire to push down on Brittany’s shoulders until her mouth is right where Quinn needs it to be.   
  
-  
  
The school year is drawing to a close and there are only a few more classes left. They’re lying naked on Quinn’s bed. Brittany on her back, hair fanned out beneath her on the pillow, and Quinn hovering over her, fingers dancing over the tops of Brittany’s legs; stroking the crease of skin where thigh meets hip.  
  
“C’mon,” Quinn says, in between kisses pressed to the smooth skin of Brittany’s chest. “If you can remember while we’re doing this, you’ll have no problem in class tomorrow.”  
  
Brittany shudders when Quinn’s fingers move to trace teasingly through her folds. “If you get the answer right,” Quinns whispers, then quickly nips Brittany’s ear between her teeth, the sharp sensation making Brittany gasp and jerk beneath her, “I’ll add a finger.”  
  
“You’re mean,” Brittany responds in a strained voice, then she huffs slightly when all Quinn does is laugh at her before saying, “I know you remember it.”  
  
Quinn’s fingers start to dip down low, swirling around Brittany’s entrance and Brittany’s hips buck up at the slight pressure, but then she takes a breath and screws her eyes tightly shut before quickly saying, “Sine rule: a over sin A equals b over sin B equals c over sin C.”  
  
“Yes!” Quinn says, then rewards Brittany by slipping a single finger through her wetness and inside, thrusting slowly, in the way she’s come to know will drive Brittany insane.  
  
Brittany whimpers, looking up at Quinn through heavy-lidded eyes, then groans when Quinn curls her finger on an outstroke. “Please, Quinn,” she says. “I need more.”  
  
“What’s the Pythagorean equation?” Quinn asks instead. She’s doing her best to keep her mind focused, but it’s difficult. Her own voice is now rough and breathless with the feel of Brittany surrounding her, all wet heat and clenching muscles, and she really just wants to relent and give Brittany what she wants—Quinn wants it too, because feeling Brittany come is probably one of her favourite things ever—but she holds steady with slow, deep strokes.  
  
After what seems like forever of Brittany trembling beneath her, looking at her with desperation, Quinn helps her out a little, because maybe it is becoming a little too much for either of them to handle.  
  
“A squared plus b…” she trails off, looking at Brittany expectantly, and Brittany’s face suddenly morphs into delight.  
  
“Squared equals c squared,” she finishes and Quinn doesn’t even bother to tell her she’s right, just dips her head down, and at the same time as she pushes a second finger into Brittany, she covers her clit with her mouth, rolling her tongue over it.  
  
Brittany grunts at the sudden movements, her eyes slamming closed as her body rocks up to meet each stroke of Quinn’s fingers.  
  
“No more studying,” Brittany gasps out. Quinn’s agreement is muffled, but Brittany hears it and lets out a whimper of relief.  
  
-  
  
Brittany passes the year’s math final with the highest grade she’s ever received in any exam.  
  
Quinn wonders if Brittany’s still going to need help next year. She kind of really, really hopes so.


	5. Sam/Rachel - in public (NC-17)

Rachel’s hands push up under Sam’s shirt, fingers meeting the hard resistance of abs that twitch as she scratches lightly at the skin.

“What are you doing to me?” She asks, breathless and a little disconcerted with how quickly she’s coming apart under his touch. She’s pressing desperately against the firm muscle of Sam’s thigh and he’s tensing and thrusting with just the right pressure to send Rachel’s eyes rolling to the back of her head and her arousal spinning out of control.

Sam just chuckles, low and throaty, his fingers gripping tighter over her ass, working her harder against the rough material of his jeans. Rachel knows she’s beyond wet, that she’s probably painting the evidence of her arousal over Sam’s leg, but she can’t care. Can’t do anything but whimper and grind harder.

She can feel his erection straining against the front of his jeans and considers for a second just letting him take her right now; imagines what it would feel like to have him inside her - stretching her, filling her,  _fucking her_. She shudders, feeling herself clench at the thought, but they  _can’t_. Not here. She will  _not_  let their first time together be in the boys’ locker room at McKinley High School.

Sam breathes out a moan, hot and wet against her ear, and her body goes liquid, only Sam’s grip on her ass and the thigh between her legs keeping her upright.

She whimpers his name, high-pitched and desperate, and he murmurs soothing words in her ear, telling her he’ll take care of her, that he’s going to make her feel so good. She nods her head urgently in agreement, because  _god_ , she wants—needs—him to do  _something_.

“Go down on me,” she says, because this needs to be fast and she already knows just how good Sam is with his mouth. The request brings a flush to her cheeks, because she can’t believe she’s asking that here of all places, but Sam just moans his approval, then presses a parting kiss against her lips before dropping down to his knees. She suppresses a whine of displeasure as the pressure of him against her disappears, instead biting her lip and looking down as he settles on the floor between her legs.

And,  _jesus_ , just looking at him kneeling there, staring up at her with so much want in his eyes, causes her stomach to tighten in anticipation and her panties to soak through.

Sam’s palms stroke up her calves, then higher, and she opens herself for him, legs spreading wide as he pushes gently at the the inside of her thighs. His hands move to cup her ass, thumbs stroking maddening circles against her hips and Rachel’s eyes flutter closed at the sensation. 

All the air in her lungs leaves her in a noisy exhale when Sam mouths at her through her panties, tongue flattening against the material, stroking against her clit. Rachel whimpers, pushing her shoulders against the cool surface of the lockers and arching her back to press more firmly against his tongue.

She tangles her fingers in his hair, gripping tight and holding him in place. He moans, the sound muffled, but the vibrations send a thrill of arousal shuddering through Rachel’s body and suddenly, she’s done with the teasing. She so desperately needs to feel him touching her without the barrier of clothing that she starts pushing frantically at the waistband of her panties with her free hand.

“Please,” she says, breathless and on the verge of incoherent. “Please, Sam, please.”

He helps her then, yanking down one side of her panties while she does the other, until they’re all the way down and she lifts one leg, then the other, allowing him to remove them completely and discard them somewhere behind him.

She’s so ready for this, for his tongue against her, sliding through her wetness, curling around her clit. She’s so ready and Sam  _knows_  that.

He takes his time.

Lips descend on her thighs, sucking and biting until Rachel’s panting out harsh breaths and her muscles are jumping and twitching in response. Only then does he turn his attention to where she needs him and Rachel cries out in relief as he licks a broad stroke through her folds. He mouths at her, dirty and hungry, his lips and tongue feeling like they’re everywhere at once.

Rachel reaches out, hands grasping and nails digging into Sam’s scalp as she chases each small movement of his mouth. His tongue flutters against her entrance, slowly, teasingly, with just enough pressure to drive her crazy, then he’s pushing inside, filling her and she can’t help the groan that rips with embarrassing volume from her throat.

He inches in and out, curls his tongue, murmurs his appreciation as she tightens around him, and Rachel is just lost. Her head falls back against the lockers and her eyes slam shut as she rides frantically against Sam’s face.

She can feel her orgasm building quickly now, and she babbles incoherently, words that are supposed to mean  _more_  and  _right there_  and  _don’t stop_ , but probably don’t come out anything like. Sam just murmurs encouragingly and buries his tongue faster and deeper until Rachel’s letting out a desperate keening sound and her whole body is shaking with the force of her orgasm.

Sam brings her down slowly, licking at her gently until she’s breathing a little calmer and her body is a little steadier.

He stands up, groaning a little as he stretches out, then kisses her slowly and she moans a little at the taste of herself on his lips.

“Tonight,” she says when he pulls back. “My dads won’t be home until really late.”

And he grins at her in response, eyes bright with the promise in her words.


	6. Rachel/Santana - angsty (PG-13)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the prompt: another picture frame, broken and thrown away, but the memory of you never fades.

There’s a box in the back of your closet — bright pink and bedazzled, because it was the box she’d used to give you your first anniversary present — that’s almost never opened, but you know the contents by heart.

A collection of movie stubs, the earliest going right back to your first date. It was the worst date you’d ever been on. You’d taken Rachel to dinner first and the restaurant completely messed up your order. The film was terrible. On the way home — walking because you thought she’d probably appreciate the idea of a romantic moonlit stroll — the skies had just opened and you’d both been soaked to the skin by the time you’d arrived at her doorstep. But still, she’d smiled and kissed you on the cheek and thanked you for a nice evening. You’d laughed in disbelief and tried to apologise, but she stopped you, telling you that the company more than made up for anything that hadn’t gone as planned.

A flower, dried and pressed now, that she’d picked from the ground and tucked behind your ear. You’d caught her hand as she pulled away and held it while you pressed your lips tentatively —  and for the first time — against hers. Her fingers had flexed in your grip, nails biting gently into the back of your hand as she sighed against your mouth, parting her lips in response to the soft swipe of your tongue. You both spent the rest of your date unable to stop smiling.

A program from Rachel’s very first leading role. It had been so off-Broadway that you’d been surprised they’d even produced programs. But you’d bought one, and when Rachel had come out of the theatre, skin flushed and eyes bright with the knowledge that she’d brought the house down, you’d been the first to demand an autograph from her. Her hands were shaking as she took your pen, scrawling her name and the ever-present gold star after it. You hugged her then and pressed a kiss to her cheek, whispering, “You were so, so awesome, baby,” into her ear and feeling her grip tighten momentarily before she moved to greet a girl standing a few feet away, also clutching a program for her to sign.

A photo that someone had taken of you on your wedding day. You’d given everyone disposable cameras, told them to take as many pictures as they wanted, and someone had captured the two of you mid-dance. Rachel’s laughing at something you just said, and even though you’ve tried to remember what it was, you can’t. You both look so happy. It was Rachel’s favourite picture of you both. Now, the glossy surface of the photo is scratched in places from when you’d swept every reminder of her to the ground, picture frames cracking and glass smashing all around you, and the edges are curled and worn from the times you cried yourself to sleep, clutching at the picture and wondering how things went so wrong.

And a ring. Rachel’s ring — the one she’d placed so deliberately on the coffee table in front of you the night she’d left. You kept yours on for months afterwards, hoping that maybe she’d come back, maybe she’d realise that you’d never stopped thinking about her, maybe it would be enough for her to let you both try again.

You kept yours on for months afterwards, but she didn’t come back. And now, you open the box one final time, dropping your ring inside to rest forever beside Rachel’s.


	7. Quinn/Tina - Yale bathroom smut (NC-17)

She knows Tina got into Yale because, although she’s not been very good at keeping in touch with her ex-classmates, they’re all still Facebook friends, and on one of the odd occasions when she remembers she actually has a Facebook account, she sees a status update excitedly proclaiming the fact. So, she knows Tina is going to be around, even expects that she might run into her on campus at some point, but what she doesn’t expect is to see her at the start of year GLBT mixer.

There might be momentary panic about being seen where Quinn considers running and hiding in the bathroom. It’s not like she’s ashamed of who she is anymore, but the prospect of things somehow getting back to Lima, to her mother, well. She’s still reliant on her parents for money while she’s studying, so can’t risk anything that might cause them to disown her once again.

In the end, though, Tina spots her before she can politely excuse herself from the conversation she’s having with a freshman who’ll be taking some of the same classes she was in last year (she has manners still, so she’s not just going to run off in the middle of conversation).

“Quinn?” Tina sounds surprised, which is not unexpected, but she smiles and waves at Quinn as she makes her way across the room. “You’re about the last person I ever expected to see here,” she says, once they’re within actual speaking distance of each other.

Quinn arches an eyebrow, even as she accepts the hug Tina’s offering. “Yeah, well, Lima wasn’t exactly the best place to be known as different, was it?” she asks and Tina gives a short laugh. “I was already known as the girl who got pregnant at sixteen, I didn’t need to give people any further ammunition.”

*

They’ve spent the last hour catching up. Quinn learns that Tina’s thinking about majoring in History, but she’s planning on shopping around different courses for a while, as she doesn’t have to declare a major just yet. She broke up with Mike because after only a couple of months trying the long distance thing, it became evident that neither of them were cut out for it and they parted ways with no hard feelings. In return, Quinn fills Tina in on what she’s been doing and what she can expect from her first year at Yale.

She might be wrong, but she’s been getting the feeling that Tina’s been flirting with her for the entire time they’ve been speaking, she certainly doesn’t remember her being quite so affectionate with her friends back at McKinley. And maybe it’s the alcohol running through her body (it’s not), but suddenly, all she can think about is what Tina’s lips will feel like pressed against hers and what her body might look like under the clothes she’s wearing.

So, when Tina excuses herself to go to the bathroom, Quinn follows a few seconds later.

There’s some girl standing at the sink, makeup brush in hand, and Quinn glares at her, pleased when, after only a couple of seconds, the girl scurries out of the room. She’s lounging against the sink opposite the only locked stall and when the door opens, she surges forward, quickly backing Tina into the stall and twisting so she’s pressing the girl against the door.

Tina’s eyes are wide, but when Quinn tangles their hands together and brings them up to press into the door above their heads, those eyes turn dark and she lets out a breathless laugh.

“I should have known you’d like to be in control,” she says, but makes no move to struggle against Quinn’s grip.

“Not always,” Quinn responds. “But right now…”

They haven’t even kissed, but already Quinn can hear Tina’s breathing increasing, feel the rapid rising and falling of Tina’s chest against her own. She wonders if Tina’s also been thinking about this for the last hour. When she rolls her hips, Tina lets out a moan that sounds almost pained, so yeah, she probably has.

Given their location and the very real possibility that someone could walk in on them at any given second, now’s not really the time for teasing, so Quinn presses forward and kisses Tina with a rough intensity that has the other girl writhing against her in seconds. It’s only now that Tina begins struggling against Quinn’s grip and Quinn releases her, because she’s got better things to do with her hands. Things like pushing up Tina’s shirt and palming at her breasts.

Tina’s nipples harden instantly and she flicks her thumb repeatedly over the tips. The girl must be crazy sensitive, Quinn thinks, because even through the material of her bra, the sensation seems to be enough to send her head thumping back against the door and a moan tearing from her lips that causes shivers throughout the entirety of Quinn’s body.

“God,” Tina whimpers. “Please—harder… I need harder.”

Quinn raises an eyebrow, because with the way Tina’s responding to her… well, she already sounds like she’s seconds away from falling apart, just from this. She complies, however, palming and squeezing and rolling Tina’s nipples in a way that has Tina flushed and panting and arching her body away from the door to press desperately into Quinn’s own.

She drops her head, drawing one nipple into her mouth and sucking, hard. Tina hisses then brings one leg up behind Quinn, hooking it around her waist and effectively opening herself up for Quinn’s wandering fingers, which are moving steadily up Tina’s thigh, pushing up her skirt as they travel higher.

The first thing Quinn realises is just  _how wet_  Tina is. Her fingers press just once against Tina’s panties and they come away covered in Tina’s arousal. The knowledge that she’s the cause of this sends a rush of wetness to soak her own panties and she groans into Tina’s skin. She’s never wanted to taste anyone as badly as she does right now, but she can’t, not now, so she just presses again, rubbing lightly over Tina’s clit.

Tina whimpers, jerking her hips into Quinn’s hand and Quinn smirks at the need evident in the girl’s eyes. Another time, another place, and Quinn would take immense amounts of pleasure in teasing her, in making her beg to be fucked, to be taken and utterly destroyed, but for now, she just pushes Tina’s panties aside and slips two fingers inside the girl.

“Fuck yes,” Tina gasps, flexing her leg and pulling Quinn closer. Quinn can’t help the moan that leaves her chest as her fingers slide deeper into the wet heat of Tina’s core. She uses her hips to push against the back of her hand and curls her fingers as she thrusts.

“God, you feel so amazing,” Quinn mutters between placing wet, open-mouthed kisses to Tina’s skin. “I want to feel you come on my fingers.” Tina just sort of grunts in response, her hands gripping at Quinn’s shoulders to steady herself as she cants her hips, meeting each of Quinn’s thrusts with increased urgency.

She can feel Tina’s fingers digging into her shoulders, hear the harsh sound of her breathing as it echoes around the stall and she knows it’s not going to take much more to send her over the edge. Her hand twists so she can press against Tina’s clit and the girl whines.

“Again. God, Quinn,  _again_.”

Quinn smirks as she says, “Say ‘please’,” but she’s already dragging her thumb in heavy circles around Tina’s clit and Tina’s gasping out her name, which, when she hears it, actually sounds better than please.

“Come for me,” she demands and with a few more thrusts, Tina does, muscles clamping down around Quinn’s fingers so hard that Quinn can barely manage to keep moving throughout her orgasm.

When Tina’s come down, she lets out a breathless laugh before saying, “Well, that was awesome.”

Quinn just smirks again, because yeah, it was, and now it’s her turn, but then the bathroom door bangs open and the sound of several women talking excitedly enters the room. She almost groans in disappointment, but Tina leans forward to place a quick kiss against her lips before mumbling, “I came with a friend, so I can’t abandon her, but come to my place later?”

“Okay,” Quinn says. “Text me the address—my number’s still the same.”

“Will do,” Tina replies and then she’s unlocking the door and leaving the stall. When she’s gone, Quinn leans back against the door and takes a few deep breaths to compose herself before heading back to the party herself.

Later, when she catches Tina’s gaze across the room, there’s a glint in the girl’s eyes that promises Quinn this could be the start of something amazing and she doesn’t mind one bit.


	8. Rachel/Santana - New York roommates (PG-13)

Rachel’s pretty sure Santana is hitting on her, in her subtle but not really subtle at all way. The first time she sauntered down their hallway completely naked, hair slicked back and body still dripping from her morning shower, Rachel was able to accept the apology and excuse of having forgotten to take a clean towel in with her. The fifth time in the same week, not so much.

So, yeah, Santana’s hitting on her without  _actually_  hitting on her.

It’s… flattering, for sure. But, while they’re roommates, they’re still working on a real friendship, so. Rachel’s not quite sure what to make of it.

It doesn’t stop her from looking. She’s not going to deny that Santana is extremely attractive and it’s definitely not a  _bad_  sight at six thirty in the morning.

When Santana catches her appreciative stare on the sixth morning, she winks and smirks and Rachel’s cheeks flush at the knowledge she’s been caught looking, even if she knows that was Santana’s point all along.

The towel returns on the seventh morning and she’s sure Santana can read the disappointment in her eyes when they pass in the hallway.

~

She’s late home that same evening. Her shift was supposed to finish at seven, but her replacement didn’t turn up until eight thirty—something about her babysitter not showing up—so Rachel had to work over. She’s not impressed as she has an early class in the morning and was supposed to do some further preparation for the monologue she’s due to give.

So, she’s late and she’s tired and all she wants to do is pull on some old sweats, curl up on the sofa and watch trashy television for a couple of hours before bed. It means when she opens the door to her apartment, hears soft music and smells cooking, she just wants to lay her head down and cry because she’s so not dealing with another of Santana’s conquests and the inevitable loud sex they will proceed to have after dinner is over and done with. There’s only so much “yes,  _God_ , Santana” she can take without wanting to scream in frustration.

It surprises her, when she walks into their living room, that Santana’s alone. She’s sitting on the sofa with a glass of wine, reading a heavy-looking textbook.

“Hi,” Rachel says, sinking down into the opposite corner of the sofa, slipping her shoes off and groaning as she wiggles her toes.

“Hey,” Santana says then waves her glass over in Rachel’s direction. “Want one?” She asks.

“Please.” Rachel leans her head back and closes her eyes, watching through slits as Santana gets up and walks into their kitchen.

She comes back a few seconds later and hands Rachel a glass. “I made dinner,” she says, sitting back down and drawing her legs under her. “It’ll be ready in another fifteen minutes or so.”

“Thank you, Santana.” Rachel smiles then quickly frowns when a thought crosses her mind. “I seem to remember when we started living together you said, and I quote, ‘I’m not eating any of that vegan shit, ever, so we’re gonna have to do our own shopping.’”

Santana looks mildly sheepish. “I may have tried some of your leftovers the other week.” At Rachel’s raised eyebrows she continues, “I was really fucking hungry, okay? And it smelled really good when you were making it so I kinda thought what the hell.”

“It’s not every day one gets to witness Santana Lopez admitting she was wrong about something.”

Santana slides her eyes sideways, narrowing them at Rachel. “Shut up,” she says, but there’s a slight smile tugging at the corner of her lips and Rachel knows she’s not being aggressive. “I’d still prefer a big ass meat-filled burger, but yeah, okay, it’s not too bad on occasion.”

Rachel just smiles and continues to sip at her wine, letting out a contented sigh as she feels the alcohol working its way through her body and relaxing her muscles.

“I’m gonna go see to the food,” Santana says after a couple of minutes sat in companionable silence.

“Do you want me to do anything?” Rachel asks, although she really doesn’t want to actually have to get up again until she’s ready to crawl into bed.

“Nope, everything’s under control, I just need to stick in the garlic bread.”

Santana comes back from the kitchen a short while later carrying two steaming plates of pasta and Rachel groans in appreciation as the smell hits her nostrils. Santana hands her one of the plates and Rachel’s quick to dive in.

“God, this is good,” she mumbles around the first mouthful. Santana just raises an eyebrow as Rachel continues to eat as if it were her last meal.

When her plate’s clean, she sets it on the floor and leans back with a groan.

“Thank you,” she says. “That was unbelievable.”

“You’re welcome,” Santana responds. “Do you wanna find something to watch while I go clean up?”

“You don’t have to do that,” Rachel says. “It’s only fair that I do  _something_  to help.”

“You look like you’re about to fall asleep, seriously.” Santana throws the remote in Rachel’s direction and picks up their plates.

When she comes back into the room after banging about in the kitchen for ten minutes, Rachel notes she simply rolls her eyes at the show she’s picked and flops back down on the sofa. They watch quietly for a while, sipping their wine and letting their stomachs settle.

The food’s made Rachel slightly lethargic and the effects of the wine are beginning to set in. She’s not drunk, by any stretch of the imagination, but she’s definitely feeling brave enough to ask the question that’s been bugging her all evening.

“Santana… what exactly is this?”

Santana mutes the television and turns towards her, eyebrow raised in question. “You’re gonna have to be a bit more explicit, Rachel. What is what?”

She’s pretty sure Santana is being deliberately dumb, but. “This.” She gestures between them. “You making me dinner, plying me with alcohol—“

“I am so  _not_  plying you with alcohol,” Santana interrupts. “You were the one who poured the last glass.”

“That’s really not the point. The only time I’ve ever seen you actually cook something that wasn’t a frozen pizza was when you were trying to get into some girl’s pants. And then there was the prancing around naked all week, what the hell was that? I really don’t—just what are you  _doing_?”

“I told you, I forgot my towel.”

“Please, Santana, I’m not that stupid. Are you—are you  _hitting_  on me?”

“Don’t tell me you didn’t enjoy the view. And as for cooking you a meal, what? I’m not even allowed to be nice to my own roommate, now?”

“Of course you are, but this isn’t—you aren’t—you didn’t even answer my question!”

“So what if I am hitting on you?”

“There are slightly more direct ways to go about it, Santana. Not everyone likes to be greeted with nakedness first thing on a morning.”

“Well you seemed to enjoy it.”

“That’s really besides the point. I’m trying—“

“So you admit it then?”

“What?”

“That you did like seeing me naked.”

“Santana, a person would have to be blind not to find you appealing on a purely aesthetic level. You have a great body.”

Santana grins smugly. “You want to see it again?”

“What? No—I mean, not right this second. Or wait, no—“

“’Cause I could just take my clothes off, if you wanted me to…”

“Santana!”

“Rachel!”

“You’re acting like a child,” Rachel says, huffing her breath out in exasperation. “If you’re not even capable of holding a serious conversation, how do you ever expect to be able to take me out on a date and  _woo_  me?”

Santana’s jaw drops a little as she processes Rachel’s words. “You mean—“

“Yes, Santana. Despite the fact you obviously have a ridiculous notion of what is an acceptable method of determining a person’s interest in you, I wouldn’t be opposed to seeing where things might go.”

“Just like that?”

“Well, you’re going to have to impress me. I don’t date just  _anybody_.”

Santana smirks. “It’s a good thing I’m not just anybody then, isn’t it?” She drawls and then reaches for the television remote, switching the sound back on.

Rachel sits there for quite some time with a rather pleased smile on her face, while Santana mentally concocts a plan for just how she’s going to go about sweeping Rachel Berry off her feet.


	9. Puck/Rachel - Oral (NC-17)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For [this prompt](http://glee-kink-meme.livejournal.com/22507.html?thread=25693675#t25693675) at the kink meme. Rachel wants to know what it’s like to have a guy go down on her, Puck is happy to oblige.

Okay, so he knows he shouldn’t have read Rachel’s diary. He really does. And there’s a part of him that even feels guilty about it, because he remembers a conversation with his mom when he was thirteen and got caught reading his sister’s diary and he’s pretty sure there were repeated statements about it being a gross invasion of privacy or something. But the thing is, now he  _has_  read it, it’s all he can think about.

The last entry, which Rachel had written the day before, was a crazy detailed description of a dream—a fucking  _dirty_  dream of some faceless guy going down on her. Rachel had ended the entry by writing about how she wanted to know what it was like for real—if it was anything like how her imagination made it out to be. And now Puck can’t get the thought of her out of his mind.

It’s distracting, really. It’s not like he’s not thought of her before, but usually thoughts of Rachel are spread between thoughts of Brittany or Quinn or Santana, even Tina and Mercedes and that chick from his math class whose name he can never quite remember. So yeah, it’s not normal for him to focus entirely on one person for any length of time and he’s pretty quickly coming to the conclusion that he’s going to have to do something about it.

~

It’s pretty easy to get an invite over to her house, after he mumbles some bullshit about needing help with the song he wants to perform for this week’s assignment. It’s actually even easier to convince her to make out with him once he’s in her room.

Really easy.

He’s hovering above her, careful not to let too much of his body rest on hers, because honestly, he doesn’t want to spook her by letting on how much just making out with her is affecting him. Seriously, he shouldn’t be shocked anymore about how good she is with her mouth, but it gets him every time.

She’s really into it too, moaning against his mouth and scratching her fingers at the nape of his neck, which, god, feels pretty fucking amazing. He almost loses himself when she tugs lightly on his hair and grinds up a little into his body.

“Fuck, Rach,” he says, a little roughly, then groans when she rubs herself against him again with absolutely no shame whatsoever.

 _Fuck it_ , he thinks and kisses down her neck with a little more purpose, sucks at her pulse until she gasps lightly, right by his ear. The sound makes him jerk, and suddenly there’s no real hiding just how turned on he is.

He meets Rachel’s gaze, rocks himself forward, deliberately this time, and watches with a pleased smile when Rachel’s eyes flutter shut and she breathes out a long, low moan that just travels straight through him.

“Noah,” she says after a second, and when her eyes open again, they’re dark, and full of want, and,  _fuck_ , this is so gonna happen.

He braces himself on one arm, slides his palm up Rachel’s leg, starting from just below her knee. Her skin is smooth under his hand and warm. She feels so good, and he’s suddenly wondering why he’s not done this before—or at least attempted to.

She’s wearing one of her short skirts, so there’s really not all that much to stop him from going higher, but he doesn’t, not yet. Instead, he just teases under the hem a little, rubs his thumb on the inside of her thigh and dips down to kiss her again. She opens her mouth to his immediately, lets out a little whimper when his tongue flicks out, strokes against her’s, and Puck can fucking feel the way her chest hitches against him and her legs spread a little wider without even the tiniest bit of prompting from his hand.

He can’t help but inch up a little higher, run his fingers along the edge of her panties, and Rachel shifts against him restlessly, this muted sound of almost pain coming from somewhere in the back of her throat. Puck groans, because,  _fuck_ , he’s pretty much in love with every sound she’s making, and the way her body twitches and responds to everything he does? It’s fucking amazing.

He goes to move, to press his fingers up against her properly through the material of her panties, but thinks better of it for a second, and pulls back from their kiss to ask, “Has anyone done this before?” 

Rachel shakes her head. “No,” she says. “But don’t stop.”

And fuck, the way she says it, dragging her teeth over her bottom lip first, then her voice, which is all deep and fucking  _husky_  or something, well, if he wasn’t hard already, that would definitely be enough to do it.

He grins, then presses a quick kiss to Rachel’s lips before drawing back slightly, because he kind of wants to watch this, watch Rachel’s reaction the first time she’s touched by someone other than herself.

It doesn’t disappoint.

Her head tips back against the pillow almost instantly, and her mouth drops open to let out this pleasured little sigh. He’s just rubbing lightly over the front of her panties, but he can feel how wet she is through the material. He presses a little harder, concentrates over where he knows her clit is, circling over it until she’s breathing a bit heavier and her body is kind of gently writhing against the bed.

“You are so fucking hot,” he murmurs, in between kisses presses against any skin he can reach, which really isn’t much, and he’d really like to do something to remedy that, but, like, her dads are still downstairs, and maybe getting naked isn’t the best idea.

Taking off her panties, though? Practically a necessity. He tugs at the hem and she just lifts her hips, lets him slide them off and drop them to the floor.

“God, Noah,” she says when he presses back against her, no barrier between them this time. He can’t help smirking at the way her hips jump a little when he circles a little rougher, and how, when he pulls back and just hovers, she’s still rocking her hips into nothing, chasing the pressure of his fingers.

“I want to taste you,” he says. “Make you come in my mouth.”

Rachel’s hips jerk so fucking hard at his words that he almost loses his balance. She looks at him, eyes kinda wild and just says, “ _Fuck_.”

He honestly didn’t think anything could be hotter than reducing Rachel to swearing, but then the demanding way she starts pushing on his shoulders, urging him down the bed, yeah, that’s pretty fucking hot, too. 

He settles between her legs and runs his hands up her thighs, pushing her skirt up a little as he goes, until it’s bunched around her waist. Their eyes lock as he scoots forward a little and licks a deliberate line through her pussy and up to her clit.

“Oh, fuck,” she says again, then groans, and Puck can’t help but groan along with her, because she tastes fucking fantastic and he’s pretty sure he’s never going to be satisfied with only getting to do this one time.

He works his tongue over her pussy, learning what makes moan, what makes her breath catch, what makes her thighs tremble under his palms. When he hits ones particularly sensitive spot, she reaches down, gripping at the back of his head and trying to hold him in place so she can rock up against his mouth.

It’s stupidly hot, and he’s getting to the point where it’s becoming almost impossible not to unzip his jeans and give himself some relief, but he really wants to make her come first. He’s pretty sure it’s not going to take much, from the flush in her cheeks and the way she’s grinding up against him almost desperately, he can tell she’s close.

He licks upwards, sucks her clit in his mouth and just flutters his tongue over it for long moments. Rachel gasps and he can feel her body tensing, the muscles in her thigh shaking against his cheek. It only takes a few more second before she’s coming, her hips jerking so hard against his mouth that he’s glad he had the foresight to grip her hips, so he can hold her in place and help her ride out the last of her orgasm.

It seems like she’s never going to stop shaking, but she does, eventually, and just lets out a shaky laugh, followed by, “Wow.”

“Yeah,” he says, moving slowly up the bed, trying not to let on that he’s now so fucking hard it’s bordering on painful, because this so isn’t about him, and he’s pretty sure he should let her enjoy her the afterglow of her first non-do-it-yourself orgasm for at least a little while longer before he excuses himself to go take care of business.

Which, okay, shit, now he’s thinking about Rachel touching herself, which is really not helping matters any. He tries to suppress a groan of frustration, but fails miserably. Rachel looks over at him with a quizzical expression, before it seems to fall into place and she just says, “Oh.”

Before he even really knows what’s happening, Rachel’s rolled onto her side and is reaching out for him, for his cock, to be specific, and yeah, the minute she strokes at him through his jeans, he knows it’s going to be over in seconds.

She pops the buttons of his fly slowly and slides her palm down his stomach, straight into his boxers. He almost asks if she’s done  _this_  before, but then realises he doesn’t want to know, and is actually not sure if he could form the words anyway, not with the way her hand’s circling around his cock and stroking upwards.

He clenches his fists in the bedsheets, trying desperately not to come at that first touch, but when she leans in and kisses him as her thumb strokes over the tip of his cock, it’s all over. He comes hard, spilling himself over her fist and the inside of his boxers.

“Fuck, Rach,” he says, hoarsely, then lets out a rueful laugh, because he can’t believe he came like a fucking twelve-year-old boy. Still, she doesn’t seem to care, just smiles up at him, before pressing another slow kiss to his lips.

Yeah, he thinks when they part, he’s definitely gonna have to work on today _not_  being the first  _and_  last time they ever do this.


	10. Rachel/Santana - Broadway Rivals (NC-17)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For Pezberry Week.

“Rachel.”

“Santana.”

“It’s been awhile.”

Rachel hums a little, thinking. “The last time we were up for the same part, I think,” she says, then grins. “That didn’t go so well for you, did it?”

“Your fault.”

“If I remember rightly,” Rachel says, “You were the one begging me not to stop, so it’s not my fault you strained your voice after that second orgasm. You should really take better care of yourself.”

Santana doesn’t respond, instead, tilts her head slightly, eyes sweeping the length of Rachel’s body. She licks her lips, slowly and deliberately, and Rachel can’t help but let her eyes dip down following the movement of Santana’s tongue.

“What time’s your audition?” Santana finally says.

“I have about thirty minutes to kill. You know how much I hate being late to these things.”

Santana grabs for her hand, curls her fingers around Rachel’s and Rachel suppresses a shiver at the light pressure of Santana’s hand in her own and the way she all but demands, “Come with me.”

~

Santana leads her away from the room in which they’d been told to wait and down a couple of corridors, until they get to one that seems like it’s currently not in use. The lights are out and it’s dark, but Santana presses forward, trying one door, then another, until she finds one that’s unlocked.

As soon as the door’s closed behind them, Rachel finds herself spun around and pushed up against it. Santana’s still not released her hand, and she drags it above their heads, then reaches down for the other, pulling that up to join the first.

She smiles then, and her eyes glint in a way that Rachel knows means trouble. The sort of trouble that usually ends in a mind-blowing orgasm. Fingers tighten their grip around her wrists and Rachel’s eyes flutter closed.

“When I’m done with you,” Santana almost growls in her ear, “You’ll be lucky if your legs even work well enough for you to walk onstage.”

Rachel bucks her hips forward, but Santana presses back, pinning her to the door with more force. “All I’m hearing are a lot of words,” Rachel says, leaning her head back against the door and smirking up at Santana. “But not a great deal of action.”

“Oh, yeah?” Santana dips her head, presses their lips together and kisses her in a way that’s far too dirty for where they are. Rachel groans into it, kissing Santana back and arching her body out from the door.

Santana’s hands release her wrists and skirt down her arms, over the curve of her breasts, then settle on her hips briefly, roughly pulling their bodies closer, before sliding up under her shirt. Rachel shivers as Santana’s palms—still slightly cold from the freezing weather outside—smooth over her back. Her bra is flicked open a split-second later and Santana moves to cover one breast, rolling over Rachel’s rapidly hardening nipple. She doesn’t stay there for long, though, her hands skipping over Rachel’s skin, scratching down her stomach and dropping to reach for the hem of Rachel’s skirt, bunching it up at the waist so she can dip fingers under the waistband of Rachel’s panties.

“Finally,” Rachel mutters, but she’s already a little breathless. “We don’t have timefor foreplay.”

Santana lets out a low chuckle before replying. “I don’t think I’ve ever had a problem getting you off in a rush.”

Rachel tries to respond, but Santana’s gone from teasing just under the edge of her panties to sliding downwards and pressing fingers alongside her clit, so she just bites her lip and widens her eyes a little in desperation.

She thinks Santana’s just going to stay there, she knows she’ll come quickly anyway—she knows Santana knows that too—but then Santana’s pulling back, gripping the edge of her panties and yanking them down.

They catch at her knees, because somewhere along the way, Rachel’s legs have just spread for Santana’s fingers, which is something she’d probably be embarrassed about if she weren’t quite so desperate for those fingers to be touching her with a little more precision.

Fingers trails quickly back upwards, nails scratching at the skin on the inside of her thigh, and Rachel lets out an almost pathetic sounding whine.

“Stop teasing,” she hisses, her eyes narrowing to glare at Santana.

“Wouldn’t be much fun if I didn’t,” Santana says.

“Fun for you,” Rachel mutters, then, “Thank God,” when Santana finally, finally starts to do something worthwhile.

“Yeah?”

Rachel bites her lip and nods, tilting her hips towards Santana’s hand and those fingers that are pressing inside slow and deep and with just enough pressure that Rachel knows she’s not going to last.

“Do you think they’ll be able to tell,” Santana says as she curls her fingers, rubs against the spot that makes Rachel’s knees want to give out. “That they’ll know you’ve just been fucked so hard you can barely stand up there in front of them?”

Rachel whimpers, grasps frantically at the hand Santana’s placed on her waist and squeezes hard. “Santana… Fuck, I—”

“C’mon,” Santana says. “I want to hear you scream for me.”

Rachel grunts as Santana moves faster, deeper, working her higher with each stroke. She’s almost there, then Santana twists her fingers, applies the slightest bit of pressure to Rachel’s clit, and it’s all over. She doesn’t quite scream, but she’s louder than advisable, given their location. Santana works her through it, keeping her upright and gradually slowing her movements until Rachel pushes gently at her hand.

Rachel sags against the wall, still flushed and breathing heavily, and watches as Santana straightens out her clothes. She’s got an altogether far too pleased look on her face that Rachel would really love to wipe off, but she’s got an audition to get to, which is unfortunately more important.

~

They get back to the waiting room just as a woman with a clipboard enters from the other side and calls out Rachel’s name. She shoots a glare at Santana, because it is entirely her fault that she’s being hurried through to the stage without even a second to gather herself.

Santana just grins at her, still with that goddamn look on her face, and says, “See you next audition.”


	11. Rachel/Santana - Rachel's damn pyjamas (PG-13)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> All the fault of the [photos](http://astano.tumblr.com/post/43738759307/early-mornings-are-fine-when-you-get-to-work-in) Lea tweeted.

“Are you sure you don’t want a blanket, or something?” Santana asks for maybe the fourth time that evening. “It is the middle of winter…”

“I’m perfectly comfortable,” Rachel replies, shifting a little in her seat and rearranging herself, which just seems to involve straightening and pulling down the top of her pyjamas a little.

Santana quickly looks away. As if it wasn’t bad enough that the bottom half of those things basically might as well not exist, now she’s getting an eye full of cleavage to top it all off. There’s just so much skin, and she’s had a couple of glasses of wine, and that’s really not helping her ability to  _not_  stare.

It’s supposed to be a “girls’ night in” and they’re watching some ridiculous movie that Santana’s barely been paying attention to, but she tries now, focusing her eyes firmly on the television and refusing to acknowledge she can still see Rachel in her peripheral vision.

It almost works, too—ten minutes later she’s picked up something of the plot and is just starting to get into it when Rachel moves again, only this time she stretches out and, before Santana even has time to protest, there are feet in her lap and Rachel lets out a small sigh.

A choked sound works its way up from Santana’s chest and she fixes Rachel with a questioning glare.

“Sorry,” Rachel says, not seeming sorry at all if the way she wiggles her feet is anything to go by. “Is this okay? I was getting cramp.”

Santana can’t think of a single reason why it’s not okay, except for the fact that it’s making her feel slightly uncomfortable, but she can’t really come out and say that, because there’s no real reason for it to be uncomfortable. At least not unless she’s willing to admit that the mere fact Rachel’s  _there_ , in those clothes, is killing her ability to concentrate on anything else, and that’s not something she wants to admit. Not even really to herself.

After what was probably far too long a pause, Santana shakes her head. Rachel grins and wriggles her feet again.

“If you’re gonna keep them there,” Santana says, grabbing hold of the offending limbs. “At least keep still.”

After receiving another apology from Rachel, which sounded a little more sincere this time, Santana determinedly turns her eyes back to the movie.

Rachel sighs again about five minutes later, and Santana shoots her another glare, just because. It’s only when Rachel mumbles, “That feels so good,” that Santana realises she’s kind of been absently massaging the arch of Rachel’s foot.

Well. It would look kind of strange if she just stopped now, so Santana presses her thumb into Rachel’s skin a little harder, rotating it in small circles. Now she’s actually aware of what she’s doing, she becomes aware of other things, too. Like how Rachel’s feet are actually sort of nice. Which is weird, because she’s never really been a foot person before.

Then, without any warning whatsoever, Rachel lets out this absolutely obscene groan that makes Santana’s cheeks flush and no, she did not just wonder if that’s how Rachel sounds when—

“I’m going to get a drink of water,” she says, standing up so quickly that Rachel’s legs fall onto the floor with a loud thump.

It’s the wine, she decides when she’s standing against the kitchen counter, taking long sips from a bottle of water. The wine and the fact that she’s only human, she can’t be expected to deal with Rachel prancing around in practically nothing, then making noises like  _that_. And. It’s not her fault.

“Are you okay?”

Rachel’s voice makes her jump a little and she almost chokes of the sip of water she’d just taken, but she nods and tries her best to look like she wasn’t imagining her roommate in any sort of indecent activity.

“Good,” Rachel says, and she take another couple of steps closer to Santana. “I just wanted to make sure, because you left awfully quickly.”

“Thirsty,” Santana says.

“Yeah, I can see.”

Rachel’s really close to her now, and just what the hell is happening? She can feel her heart speeding up as Rachel takes another step, and she’s trying really hard not to stare at Rachel’s lips and think about kissing her right now, because that would be wrong, and she doesn’t even think of Rachel like that. Except—

Rachel takes the bottle of water out of her hand and places it on the counter beside them.

Santana licks her lips and Rachel watches her do it.

“Can I—”

Santana doesn’t even wait for Rachel to finish before she blurts out, “Yes.” It doesn’t matter what Rachel’s going to say, the answer will be the same.

Rachel’s not that much smaller than Santana, so all it really takes is for Santana to angle her head down and Rachel to angle her’s up and,  _oh_. 

It’s barely a brush at first, and when Rachel pulls back, her eyes are a little wide, and her cheeks are slightly flushed, and Santana bends down again, because she can’t  _not_  go back for more.

Rachel sighs this time and presses closer to Santana. She brings up a hand to cup Santana’s cheek, stroking at it gently with her thumb.

This time when they part, Rachel smiles at her. “That was nice,” she says, and there’s a part of Santana that wants to protest, because kissing her should be a hell of a lot more than nice, but there’s a larger part of her that’s still trying to work out what the hell just happened, and why she enjoyed it so much. “We should do it again sometime.”

Yeah, Santana thinks, and nods her head in agreement, because she’s not sure she’s quite capable of words just yet. They should definitely do that again. Preferably very soon.


	12. Rachel/Santana - Kurt's POV (PG-13)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Inspired in part by Ashleigh’s prompt of ‘Kurtana, shared wall in the Bushwick apartment when it’s still just the bookshelf’.

Since Brody moved out, Kurt’s stopped wearing his earplugs to sleep. As much as he loves Rachel, there’s really only so far that extends, and listening to the—sometimes loud—sounds of the two of them together, well that was just a little too much, even for the best of friends.

So. Brody moved out. They gained another permanent roommate in the form of Santana. And Kurt no longer has to wear earplugs to bed. Of the three, he’s most pleased about the latter, because there was something slightly discomforting about trying to sleep with his hearing impaired, and he’d had more than one nightmare about waking up to find the apartment had been ransacked in the middle of the night, while he remained blissfully unaware.

~

It works out that on the nights before he has to get up for an early class, neither Santana nor Rachel have to be up before noon, so he finds himself, more often than not, falling to sleep with the quiet sounds of the TV and their occasional conversations floating in and out of his consciousness.

They’re not loud or intruding, and there’s something kind of nice about knowing they’re both just on the other side of the bookcase.

Sometimes he’s still awake to hear Rachel quietly moving through the apartment to her bedroom, sometimes he’s asleep long before that happens.

~

One time it appears she didn’t manage to make the trip at all, and Kurt walks through in the morning to find both Santana and Rachel sprawled inelegantly over their couch. Santana’s still mostly sitting, while Rachel’s half reclined, with her cheek pressed against the side of Santana’s arm.

They almost look cute, with their mouths slightly open and Santana’s soft snoring filling the air.

He drapes a blanket over them and leaves them be, laughing quietly to himself when he thinks about Santana’s murderous reaction to discovering Rachel drooling all over her favourite top when she wakes up.

~

It starts to become almost as usual to find both of them on the couch in the morning as it is to find just Santana.

~

At the two month mark of Santana’s permanent residency, she finally uses some of her mom’s money to replace their old sofa with one that pulls out into a bed, after complaining endlessly about waking up stiff so many mornings.

Kurt thinks it’s probably more to do with the fact that at least half the time, she’s sleeping in strange positions, with another body taking up more than its fair share of the small space. But something tells him not to bring that up, so he just promises he’ll ask Adam to lend his muscle in shifting the old sofa out and bringing in the new.

~

When he walks through the morning after the new sofa is situated, he’s not surprised to find both Santana and Rachel asleep there. He’s not even surprised to find that Rachel’s a cuddler, even when she has all the space of a double bed.

What does surprise him is the way Santana’s own hand is pressed over Rachel’s, keeping it in secure in place around her waist.

~

He has to bite his tongue on so many occasions to stop himself from saying something. He’s not even sure if they even realise yet that what they’re doing passed the line of friendship a long time ago. He doesn’t think they’ll thank him for pointing it out, though.

~

Sometimes even on the nights when they all have to be up early, he suspects they’ve both slept in Santana’s bed, because even though they’re both generally awake before him—Rachel’s bathroom schedule puts him last on the list for a shower, so he gets an extra half hour to sleep in—Rachel’s bed doesn’t look like it’s been slept in at all.

~

One morning he walks through to find them both, obviously naked, curled against each other in the middle of the bed.

He averts his eyes and leaves quickly, because it feels like he’s intruding, even though they’re in a communal space and it can’t be helped that he has to walk by them every day.

~

That evening, he resolutely retrieves his earplugs from their drawer and makes a mental note to gently suggest that maybe Rachel’s bed would be a more appropriate place for them to be if this is going to become a thing.

Even with the inconvenience of earplugs, he really hopes it is.


	13. Rachel/Santana - porn on a rug (NC-17)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Quick and dirty porn as a fill for [this prompt](http://trainwrecky.livejournal.com/1320.html?thread=17704#t17704) (link is nsfw).

Honestly, Santana’s plan for the evening was nothing more than a bowl of popcorn, the couch, and a TV marathon of some form. They’re both completely worn out from work, have been for the last week, because both of their shows are in the final stages of rehearsals, and it’s all going a little crazy. Rachel only came home about twenty minutes ago, and after getting changed, she’d immediately collapsed onto their couch, not even giving her usual token protest to Santana queuing up a couple of episodes of this insane reality show that she loves and she knows Rachel enjoys too, even though she’d never admit it.

The thing is, because it’s so warm in the apartment, Rachel’s just in her underwear and this tiny three-quarter sleeved t-shirt that barely comes to her belly button, which, while Santana is completely in favour of Rachel being in as few clothes as possible at all times, all that skin on show is kind of ruining her ability to do anything but think about getting her hands on it. Or her mouth. She’s not really all that fussy.

“I missed you today,” she says.

Rachel looks up from where her head’s resting on Santana’s shoulder and smiles at her. “Yeah? Me too.”

“I’ve missed you all week.”

It takes a second for her meaning to click in Rachel’s mind, but Santana can tell when it does because she breathes in a little deeper and she shifts against Santana’s side before saying, “Me too,” again, only slightly rougher, and with this lip bite at the end that does a good job of making up Santana’s mind about what’s going to be happening next.

Her tiredness just seems to drop away as she tugs Rachel over until she’s straddling her thighs with hands braced on the back of the couch for support. Santana smooths her hands up the outside of Rachel’s legs until they reach the curve of Rachel’s ass and dip underneath the sides of those indecently skimpy panties. She palms at the skin, enjoying the small groan Rachel lets out when she squeezes just a little harder.

Rachel dips her head, pressing her lips against Santana’s, softly at first, but quickly becoming hot and dirty when Santana licks at Rachel’s lips, then into her mouth, curling her tongue in a way that makes Rachel shudder and moan into the kiss

She can feel Rachel rocking on top of her, hips inching forward until she’s pressed against Santana’s stomach and Santana can feel the heat of her radiating through the fabric of her sweater. Her hands slide almost aimlessly over Rachel’s body, touching anywhere within reach—her arms, stomach, sliding up under Rachel’s top to drag nails across her back. Rachel reaches out with one hand, tangling shaky fingers into Santana’s hair and kissing her harder.

For a second, Santana thinks about just laying Rachel out on the sofa—it wouldn’t be the first time they’ve not made it to the bedroom—but then her eyes land on their rug, which is huge and soft, and there might have been a part of Santana’s mind that picked it out for just this sort of occasion.

Rachel’s not exactly heavy, but it still takes a fair amount of effort to push upwards and stagger them the three feet or so to the rug. Rachel lets out this little laugh and says, “Smooth, baby,” when Santana collapses ungracefully to her knees, and she considers a well-placed prod to the ribs, but then Rachel’s pulling her down into another kiss and she’s not really thinking about much at all.

She’s thinking about even less when Rachel flips their positions, crawling over her body and easing her backwards until head hits the cushions that she’d thrown off the couch earlier in the evening—and really, who buys cushions for a couch that end up only leaving you with about two inches of seating space?

She can’t really complain now, though, because she’s pressing her head back into those cushions while Rachel’s lips skim over her jaw and then down to suck a little harder at her neck. She feels a sudden rush of arousal when Rachel’s teeth scrape lightly over her skin—she almost wants Rachel to bite down, mark her, but she knows she can’t risk anything that makeup won’t cover. It doesn’t matter, anyway, because Rachel doesn’t stay put for very long, she kisses down further, nosing down the collar of Santana’s sweater to nip gently at her collarbone. The sharp press of her teeth there, where no one can see, spreading downwards, until it’s coiling tight in Santana’s stomach.

She lets out this involuntary little whimper that sounds quite pathetic, even to her own ears, given how much Rachel’s not really touched her yet, then tugs at the hem of her sweater, pushing it upwards until it’s caught above her breasts. Rachel takes the hint and dips her head further, licking a path between them, then over, until her mouth closes around an already hard nipple. Santana moans softly, her own hand coming up automatically to palm at the side Rachel’s neglecting, teasing the nipple with deft fingers that pinch and pull in time with the feel of Rachel’s mouth.

“God,” Rachel murmurs, breathing out hot and wet against the taut skin of Santana’s breast. “You have  _no_  idea how much I’ve missed this.” 

And it seems almost crazy, because it’s only been a week, but it’s true, and Santana let’s out a shirt laugh, the sound choking off into a moan when Rachel bites down lightly, tugging at the nipple in her mouth in a way that borders on painful, but still feels amazing. When she can make the words come out, she says, “I think I do.” 

Rachel seems quite content to stay where she is, teasing Santana’s breasts until her nipples are almost painfully hard, which, as good as it feels, it’s is just not at all enough right now, not with how wet she can feel she is, how much she needs Rachel’s attention elsewhere.

“God. Can you—”

“Yeah.” Rachel says. “Yeah.” Her hand slides over Santana’s hip, and Santana sucks in a breath as she reaches the edge of her panties, but she stops abruptly, just leaving her thumb rubbing lightly over Santana’s skin.

Santana’s about to protest, but Rachel bites her lip, then says, “I need to taste you,” and Santana can’t really do anything but helplessly moan out her agreement.

Rachel’s mouth leaves a wet trail across Santana’s stomach as she kisses quickly downward, shuffling backwards on the rug at the same time, until she’s kneeling between Santana’s legs and reaching out to help pull down panties that Santana knows must be completely soaked.

When they’re off and discarded somewhere to the side, Rachel leans back in, hovering just so her breath caresses Santana’s skin. Santana’s breath hitches, and she can feel the curve of Rachel’s smile where her cheek’s pressed against the inside of her thigh, but it’s not until she whimpers and twitches her hips up that Rachel gives in and runs her tongue through Santana’s folds in one slow, deliberate lick.

Santana hisses out her pleasure, and can’t stop the way her hips roll up into Rachel’s mouth, chasing the pressure of her tongue as she continues to tease, fluttering over Santana’s entrance, up to rub over her clit, but never quite with the right amount of force to be enough.

Her eyes want to close, but she forces them open, drags her eyes over Rachel’s body, finally landing on the curve of Rachel’s ass—the way it sways in the air is completely indecent and only serves to make Santana wetter.

“Baby,” she murmurs, lifting her hips up further, until her ass is all the way off the floor and Rachel’s sliding her hands down, holding her up against her mouth. “Yes.”

The teasing strokes are gone now, and Santana palms almost desperately at her own breasts as Rachel draws her clit into the wet heat of her mouth, rubbing over the tip in the way she  _knows_  Santana loves.

Rachel’s making these little noises of enjoyment in the back of her throat, and Santana presses her head back against the cushions, letting the sound wash over her, and the knowing press of Rachel’s tongue drive her higher by the second.

It’s not going to take much more, and Rachel seems to know that. She holds Santana firmly, enough that Santana can feel the slight pinch of nails digging into her ass. Her body’s starting to tense, and it only takes one more press of Rachel’s tongue against her before her orgasm hits, and she’s gasping out Rachel’s name, jerking hard against her mouth.

Rachel works her through it, licking at her determinedly until Santana can’t take anymore, and she’s urging Rachel away and upwards, rolling them until Rachel’s underneath her.

She’s sure they’ll make it to the bed at some point, but right now, she’s perfectly happy where she is, and from the way Rachel’s moving under her, she pretty sure Rachel’s more than fine here too.


	14. Quinn/Santana - At church camp (NC-17)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For [this prompt](http://trainwrecky.livejournal.com/1320.html?thread=27432#t27432) (link nsfw).

“Santana,” Quinn hisses. “ _Stop it_.”

Santana puts on her best innocent expression, all the while trailing her fingers a little higher on Quinn’s thigh. She can’t help but feel a little triumphant when, despite her protesting, Quinn just spreads her legs a little wider. That’s what she thought.

“Doesn’t look to me like you want me to stop,” she says, only just managing to keep the grin off her face. And here’s the thing, she would stop if Quinn actually wanted her to, but they have a system worked out.

Quinn will never actually admit it out loud, but she totally gets off on taking risks. She’d found that one out when they were fifteen and Quinn let Santana finger her under a blanket on the bus ride to camp, with the nuns asleep in the seats across the fucking aisle from them.

Still, they’ve never actually done anything quite as out in the open as they are here, literally out in the open, sitting at the lunch tables, with people all around them, so she hesitates slightly, fingers just toying with the hem of Quinn’s shorts, giving Quinn ample time to actually stop her from going any further.

When all Quinn does is glare at her for long seconds, Santana does grin. “Do you want me to touch you, Quinn?” She whispers, discreetly shuffling as close as she dares and bending her head close to Quinn’s ear. Quinn shivers lightly as Santana continues. “Look how many people there are. You’ll have to stay so still, be so quiet, or they’ll know, Quinn. They’ll know just how dirty you are underneath that virtuous little act you put on.”

Quinn glares at her again, but Santana cups her through the thin material of her shorts, feeling the heat beneath her palm, and she just knows how wet Quinn probably is already. She can tell Quinn’s trying so hard not to let anything show on her face, but she can’t stop the way her eyes drift closed and her mouth parts just a little, and it’s enough to send Santana’s own head swimming with arousal. She presses, just lightly, and Quinn lets out a shaky breath. “Do you think you can manage that?”

She can see Quinn’s jaw clench, like she’s biting back a snarky response, but then seems to think better of it—probably because she knows there’s a fifty per cent chance Santana will just leave her hanging if she does—and nods her head sharply.

Santana looks around, they’re on their own at this table, but there are other kids sitting at the next one over, and she checks to make sure they’re not paying attention, because as much as they might both get off on this, she doesn’t actually want them to get caught. When she’s happy they’re all engrossed in their own food and conversations, she grips Quinn a little tighter, rubbing her through her shorts. She wishes she could slip her hand under them, feel Quinn’s arousal soaking her fingers, but they’re too tight for that, and she doesn’t dare pop the buttons.

Santana palms over Quinn’s clit, and Quinn sucks in a breath, slips a little down in her seat, and drops her legs open a little wider. Santana rewards her with a whispered, “Good girl,” and a little more pressure, just where she needs it most.

Quinn whimpers quietly, one of her hands coming up to grip at the edge of the table, the other grasping at Santana’s wrist, fingernails biting into her skin. Santana can feel the tension in her body, knows Quinn wants to move, roll her hips against Santana’s palm, but she can’t—all she can do is sit there and force her body to be still as Santana flexes her fingers and grinds her palm down, again and again.

“Are you going to come, Quinn?” Santana murmurs. “I can feel how wet you’re getting. Your shorts aren’t going to hide anything. Do you think people are going to realise what you’ve been doing?”

“ _Santana_.”

Quinn’s trembling now, and she’s biting down on her bottom lips so hard Santana’s surprised she’s not drawing blood. Santana flexes her fingers again, pressing against Quinn’s entrance through her shorts, and Quinn jerks so violently that Santana feels the need to shoot a quick glance around them, checking that they aren’t actually being watched.

Still. “Sister Thomas keeps looking at us,” she says, and Quinn’s muffled gasp and widened eyes are exactly the response she’s looking for. She grins, then says, “Do you think she knows, Quinn? That she can tell I’ve got my hand between your legs?”

“Santana,  _please_ ,” Quinn says, hushed but with an edge of desperation to it that Santana loves to hear. Nothing sounds better to her than Quinn when she’s on the brink of losing control, and she shifts restlessly in her seat, pressing down against the wood in an effort to relieve the ache that’s been building relentlessly between her own legs, but it does nothing but make her groan in frustration.

Her hand moves against Quinn more urgently, and Quinn’s rocking into it now, an almost imperceptible tilt of her hips, but it must be enough.

“Oh—Oh, God. I—” She grips Santana’s wrist so tight it hurts, and her eyes go wide, almost disbelieving, as she trembles violently, stifling the final sounds of her release in Santana’s shoulder.

Santana stokes her gently a few more time, feeling Quinn relax against her, and she loves this feeling, loves the contented sigh Quinn lets out before turning away from Santana’s body, almost as much as she loves those few desperate seconds before orgasm.

It takes a little while, but when Quinn’s somewhat back to normal, she rounds on Santana with a glare and a sharp smack to her arm. “I can’t believe you just did that,” she says.

Santana can’t do anything but let out a loud laugh, because she can't believe Quinn’s even trying to pretend like she didn’t enjoy it. “I’m sure you’ll come up with a way to pay me back,” she says, and knows Quinn will.


	15. Rachel/Santana - An Ode to Santana's Abs (PG-13)

It’s hot. Stiflingly so in their apartment, where there is no airconditioning because they can’t afford it, and all the heat from the floor below seems to rise and gather, sometimes making it difficult to even breathe.

Most clothing around the apartment has quickly become optional, and it’s not unusual for any of the three of them to strip off their outer layers as soon as they walk through the door, and lounge around in as small amount of fabric as can be considered decent.

Rachel’s on her bed, the single fan she owns doing a lackluster job of providing a cool breeze, when Santana walks unannounced through the curtain that’s pulled back to effect an open door—a system they’ve come to all agree on.

“Hey,” she says, and Rachel tilts her head in response, because sometimes it’s even too hot to speak. “My gym’s being refurbished this week, so I was kinda wondering if I could use your elliptical?”

It’s nice that Santana’s started asking for things she wants to borrow. When she first moved in, she was the absolute worst roommate Rachel could ever imagine having, but several months and a few meetings about etiquette later, and she remembers to be considerate at least half the time.

Rachel does, however, think Santana’s a little crazy for wanting to do any form of exercise in this unairconditioned hell. Still, she shouldn’t judge. “Sure,” she says. “Anytime.”

Anytime apparently means there and then, because Santana immediately walks over to the back wall of Rachel’s room and steps up onto the machine.

Rachel eyes her skeptically for a few seconds before turned back to the book she’s reading, holding it at a weird angle, so as not to block any of the pathetic streams of air coming from her fan.

She manages to read about two paragraphs before the whirring of the elliptical and Santana’s slightly laboured breathing causes her to look up. She had a comment about the ridiculousness of Santana’s desire to exercise on the tip of her tongue, but her eyes meet toned abs, already covered in a slight sheen of sweat, and the words just dry right up.

(She doesn’t have the mental capacity to think about the fact that her mouth is the only part of her body that’s dry.)

Santana’s body is fantastic, and while she was already vaguely aware of that fact, it’s only now, with her eyes greedily drinking in all the skin that’s on show, watching Santana’s muscles flex and extend as she pounds away on the machine—going faster than Rachel ever does herself—that Rachel realises just how fantastic it really is.

It’s about the same time she realises that perhaps her preference for a toned female body is not just limited to liking Ms. July over Brody, because Santana? Santana just shot right to the top of the list.

Rachel tries to go back to her book. She tries so hard. The thing is, there are beads of sweat gathering now on the part of Santana’s chest that is visible to her. It’s kind of mesmerising, watching them slowly track down until they disappear between Santana’s breasts.

It should not be attractive. It really shouldn’t. She wouldn’t even let Finn near her after football practice until he’d showered, and Brody had been frog marched into the bathroom the one time he’d tried to start something immediately after he’d gotten back from a jog.

Still, even knowing that doesn’t stop the thoughts running through Rachel’s mind of ripping Santana’s sports bra over her head and running a tongue between sweat-slicked breasts. Of kissing toned abs and strong thighs. Of—

“Do you want a tissue for your drool?” Santana’s voice jerks Rachel from her thoughts, and she looks up, seeing a wicked smirk and amused eyes. Her face flushes immediately and she drops her gaze, concentrating on the book in front of her.

“I was admiring your technique,” she says—mumbles, really—turning the page of her book with determination, despite only having read half the previous page.

“You were admiring something, alright, and it wasn’t my technique.”

Rachel shifts, the tone of Santana’s voice—a soft purr that seemed to float through the air and settle right between her thighs—leaving her even more uncomfortably aroused than she was before.

“I didn’t—I wasn’t—”

“Don’t even try to deny it,” Santana says, stepping down from the elliptical, and for one small moment, Rachel thinks she’s going to come over to the bed, _wants_ her to, even, but she just walks towards the door. “I could feel your eyes all over me—hotter than this damn weather.”

Rachel looks on helplessly as Santana saunters out of her room, then sinks back to her bed with a loud groan. She’s sure, if Santana insists on getting her daily exercise while Rachel’s in the same room, the rest of the week is going to be torture.


	16. Rachel/Santana - Santana watches her own sextape (R)

She’s so fucking close when the loft door slams shut behind someone—Rachel by the sound of it—that she almost doesn’t stop, and it’s that split-second of hesitation that leads to Rachel pushing through the curtains (and for fuck’s sake, they’ve  _talked_  about privacy) and catching her with her hands down her pants.

The immediate shade of red Rachel’s face turns is almost funny, because really, it’s not like she and Kurt didn’t have to put up with hearing every-fucking-thing when Brody was still around, but then Rachel’s eyes—probably searching for somewhere safe to rest that  _isn’t_  Santana’s half-naked body—land on Santana’s laptop… the laptop where she was watching a video of herself and Brittany. (One of their finest, if she does say so herself.)

"Uh," she starts, but Rachel shakes her head, closing her eyes for a second, and then says "Santana," in this voice that’s… Santana’s not sure, but it sounds almost pitying, which…

"I had  _no idea_  you were still not over Brittany. If I’d known—if we’d known, Santana…”

Nothing about this is really all that funny, it  _should_  be mortifying, what with the way Rachel seems to be about ready to give her a hug, or something, which, considering her current condition, is just a whole load of  _no_ , but Santana can’t help but laugh.

"I’m not still pining over Brittany," she says, sitting up a little, because it’s… not  _weird_ , but it’s  _something_ , talking to Rachel like this. It’s only when she brushes her hair out of her face that she realises her fingers are wet, and she wonders if Rachel noticed, too, then promptly sits on the thought, and her fingers. “That video’s just really fucking hot.”

She follows Rachel’s gaze as it drops down to her laptop once more, and there’s a part of her that’s almost pleased at the way Rachel’s blush returns, even deeper this time. She’s almost embarrassed at admitting she finds watching herself a turn on, but then, it’s  _Rachel_  she’s talking to, and if she’s never gotten off to the sound of her own voice, well, Santana would be shocked.

When it seems like she’s possibly rendered Rachel speechless, she makes a shooing motion with her hand. “If you don’t mind?” She says.

Rachel shakes her head, almost like she’s coming out of a daze. “Oh! Yes. Sorry. I’ll just…”

Rachel closes Santana’s curtains behind her, and a couple of minutes later, Santana hears the shower going. She almost considers finishing herself off, but really, the interruption has kind of ruined the mood, so she switches off her laptop and decides on sleep.

~

Rachel doesn’t make all that much noise when she’s on her own, and Santana’s not sure at first, but the small sighs and restless movements from her side of the loft give her away, and Santana can’t help but grin.

Of course, there doesn’t have to be any connection at all to earlier events, but she’s pretty sure it’s no coincidence. She’s also pretty sure Rachel’s maybe being a little louder than normal, and that thought brings back Santana’s earlier arousal in an instant.

Her fingers slip down, idly stroking her stomach for a few seconds before sliding under the waistband of her panties. She’s wet, still, and gets wetter when Rachel lets slip a moan, the sound travelling easily through the quiet of the loft.

She works herself up quickly, listening to the muted sounds of Rachel touching herself just a few feet away, and comes just seconds after she hears Rachel give one final sigh.

It’s quiet then, almost too quiet, like Rachel’s expecting something—some acknowledgement of what just happened, maybe, but all Santana can think to say is, “Don’t think I don’t know what you were thinking about.”

Rachel squeaks, and Santana stifles a laugh, getting out a “Goodnight, Rachel,” before turning onto her stomach and closing her eyes.

Tomorrow, she’s sure, will be an interesting day.


	17. Santana/Dani - Babysitting (PG-13)

She hasn’t babysat since freshman year of high school, when she and Brittany used to look after Brittany’s neighbour’s kid on a Friday night. The kid was basically a saint, and even at barely a year old, would almost always go to sleep as soon as he was put down. The few occasions he wouldn’t, though, they’d take turns rocking him, until he became heavy in their arms and they could lay him back down. Brittany would always place a soft kiss on the kid’s forehead, then smile down at him before they crept out of his room. She’d link their pinkies together and then kiss Santana’s cheek, and Santana had to pretend that the warmth in her chest had absolutely nothing to do with any of that at all.

~

By the time senior year came around, they weren’t babysitting anymore, but Santana would sometimes look at Brittany and remember how good Brittany always was with the kid, how much better than she herself had been, and it was nothing now to think about their own future, to think about Brittany as a mom, rocking their own baby to sleep.

~

Brittany was so much a part of her future that for months after the breakup she could only focus on the now. The future was a hazy blur, populated by shadow-puppet people, and it hurt to think about. Even knowing she was doing the right thing didn’t make it hurt any less.

Then there was one date, then another with another person. A third and fourth and fifth date, sometimes with the same person twice, but never more than that. Then there was Dani, and they way her smile made Santana feel more terrified than she ever had at just the prospect of saying ‘hello’.

~

She hasn’t babysat since freshman year of high school, but agrees to tag along with Dani when one of the older women at work all but gets on her knees and begs them to help her out.

This kid’s a fucking terror. He’s been screaming for what feels like hours, and Santana’s all but ready to scream herself. Dani’s gone to make up some formula, and when she comes back, bottle in hand, Santana hands the kid over gratefully.

He takes the bottle without any fuss, and Dani settles down into the rocking chair by his cot.

Three months in is far too early to be thinking about the future, about having kids, and Santana almost laughs at herself. The thing that stops her, though, the thing that makes her eyes widen slightly with surprise as she listens to Dani humming softly at the kid and watches his eyes drift shut, is that it might be far too early, but she can think about it, she can think about a future with Dani and it doesn’t hurt at all.


	18. Rachel/Santana - your lullabies won’t let me sleep (NC-17)

“It doesn’t have to be over, Rachel.”

“Santana…”

“No. It doesn’t—it can’t. I love you and—fuck, there’s Skype and weekends off, and it’s not like we can’t afford to be flying over to see each other.”

“We barely see each other now, and we practically live in the same apartment. You know it’s better this way.”

“I don’t know anything like that. How can you—”

“It’s four years, Santana. Four years where I’ll be in London and you’ll be here, and who knows what’s going to happen after that? We both agreed our careers had to come first. Just—I love you, okay, I love you and I just want to remember that.”

Santana nods slowly. She promised herself she wouldn’t cry, wouldn’t beg Rachel to stay. She’d known this was coming for months, but when they’d agreed, when everything was still so new between them, she hadn’t realised just how easily she would fall in love, and how difficult it was going to be to let Rachel go.

“I’m—I’m going to shower,” Rachel says. “My flight’s in a few hours and I need to—”

“Yeah. I know. I—”

The shaky smile Rachel gives her before heading into the bathroom is what finally sets Santana’s tears off. She sinks down against the wall and just gives in to them. She knows Rachel’s going and she can’t stop her—she doesn’t really want to, it’s just the panic of having to see her leave that’s making her want to grab on tight and never let got.

She doesn’t want them to end like this, though—with tears and desperation. Not when they still have even a little time.

~

Rachel accepts the feeling of Santana’s arms sliding over her hips with a small sigh.

“I love you,” Santana murmurs, in between kisses pressed against Rachel’s shoulder blades, to the soft skin between them. Her palms glide upwards, sliding easily over Rachel’s water-slick skin, until they’re holding Rachel’s shoulders, pulling them closer together. They fit well like this, Santana thinks; they fit in a lot of ways Santana would never have expected.

Rachel’s head drops down a little, and Santana can feel the swell of her chest, the slight raise of her shoulders, as she draws in a heavy breath. “I love you too, Santana. But—”

She quiets Rachel with a small sound, then pulls her even closer. “Please… you were right—let me remember us like this. Together.”

Rachel doesn’t reply, but she turns slowly in Santana’s arms, presses her palm against Santana’s cheek. The shower’s washed away most of Santana’s tears, so when Rachel’s thumb brushes just under her eye, it’s mostly water she’s wiping away. She kisses Santana then, sliding soft lips against her forehead, her cheeks, working her way to Santana’s mouth.

The press of Rachel’s lips against her own is too much—too full of everything they can’t say—and not nearly enough. She clings to Rachel, hands curving over Rachel’s waist, holding them together. Rachel whimpers quietly against her mouth, and Santana holds her tighter, walking them slowly backwards the two short steps needed for Rachel’s back to press against the tiles of the shower wall.

Rachel shudders slightly when she connects with the cold of the tiles, but then she’s reaching out, her fingertips ghosting over Santana’s body—her cheeks, her jaw, down to her shoulders and arms. It’s like she’s trying to touch Santana everywhere, trying to map out her body, commit it to memory before it’s too late.

At that thought, Santana can’t contain the sob that’s been working its way up since Rachel’s lips first pressed against her own. She breaks the kiss, burying her head into the crook of Rachel’s neck, her mouth pressing wet, hasty kisses everywhere she can reach.

They’re good together, better than Santana ever would have imagined when Rachel first kissed her, pressed her softly back against the couch and whispered against Santana’s mouth just how long she’d been thinking about doing that. They’re good and Santana wants to say fuck everything, fuck everything but this: the taste of Rachel’s skin; the slide of their bodies; the sound of her name on Rachel’s lips.

Instead, she reaches down, presses fingers where Rachel’s hot and slick and aching for her, and kisses away the gasp Rachel can’t contain like it’s nothing, like it’s not the last time she’s going to hear that sound.

Rachel shudders against her, head dropping back against the tiles, and Santana can’t help but follow the line of her jaw with lips and teeth and tongue, until she’s nipping at Rachel’s neck, leaving a patch of red behind, marked enough to show for a few days, marked enough for Rachel to remember.

Her fingers press faster, deeper, curling just right, just where Rachel needs her, and Rachel cries out, Santana’s name first, but then broken sobs of pleasure, grief, both, maybe, Santana’s not sure. The only thing she knows is the feel of Rachel tightening around her fingers, the slight tremble in her thighs, and the pressure of nails against her bicep, biting into her skin.

Rachel comes with Santana’s name on her lips, and Santana can’t look away, can’t do anything but try to remember every second of the feel of Rachel coming apart in her arms.

~

She doesn’t go to the airport.

Instead, she falls asleep listening to the cast recording of Rachel’s last show, but it does nothing to stop the apartment from suddenly seeming so quiet. Empty.


	19. Rachel/Santana - Four parts (NC-17)

_._

She’s pressed up against the counter in their kitchen, Santana’s pelvis flush against her, and the sound of her own breathing so loud in her ears that she can barely make out the way Santana says her name.

“Rachel.”

Exhaled like a question, into the space between their lips; an opportunity for Rachel to stop this, if stopping this is something Rachel desires.

It isn’t.

Santana’s lips, when they come, are exactly how Rachel has imagined them—and she’s imagined them a great deal over the weeks preceding this moment. They are dry and soft and press against her own with a degree of certainty—of knowing now that Rachel wants this too.

This first kiss—and it is the first of many—is over too soon. It leaves Rachel bereft. It leaves her wanting. Wanting to reach out, to slide fingers against the nape of Santana’s neck, curve over her skin and pull her down, back to Rachel’s lips. Back for more.

She does.

_.._

Kurt walks in on them when Rachel’s shirt is somewhere across the room, and she’s got her hand halfway inside Santana’s pants.

In their defence, he wasn’t supposed to be home for hours.

“I don’t want to know,” he splutters, before turning around and walking out again.

They look at each other once he’s gone, and Rachel’s hand over her mouth isn’t enough to stifle her laughter. Santana joins in seconds later, eyes that were widened with fear of discovery turning quickly to mirth, and Rachel realises then—this thing between them that’s so new, they’ve never once talked about what it means outside of furtive looks and stolen kisses and the fumble of hands in the dark.

When he comes back ten minutes later, clutching a coffee from the place on the corner, they’re both decent, and together, they tell him.

“We’re dating,” Rachel says. Santana nods, squeezes Rachel’s hand.

Telling Kurt is that simple. Telling the rest of their friends turns out to be a little more entertaining.

_…_

“We should have done this years ago,” Santana says, her fingers deftly finding the hem of Rachel’s dress and hiking it up.

“Have sex in the bathroom at the Grammys?” Rachel takes over holding onto her dress, and bites her lip to stop the gasp that wants to emerge when Santana roughly pulls down her panties and slides two fingers against her.

“You’re soaked,” Santana says, her fingers coming away wet and slick. Rachel fails completely at holding in her moan when Santana sucks those fingers into her mouth, licking Rachel’s taste away before reaching down to slide against her once more. “And I meant collaborate. We always did sound amazing together. Should have known it would be Grammy Award-winning amazing.”

Santana presses inside then, and Rachel’s eyes slip closed, a groan of relief escaping her at Santana’s fingers finally being exactly where they’re needed most.

“Grammy Award-winning artist, Rachel Berry,” Santana murmurs with a smirk on her face, and the way Rachel loses her breath, the way she just clenches around Santana’s fingers, is only about thirty percent a result of the smirk and how Santana’s fingers curl  _just so_  as she says the words.

_…._

“No!” Rachel says the word so quickly that she doesn’t realise what she’s said, and how it could be taken, until Santana’s face drops and she struggles to get up. “Wait, I didn’t mean…” She places her hand on Santana’s arm, stills her escape. “I was going to ask you,” she says. “Next week. I have the ring ordered, and… of course I’ll marry you.”

As if there was ever any doubt.

Santana pretty much tackle-hugs her to the sofa, both of them laughing, and then Santana’s kissing her and there’s a ring sliding onto her finger, and Rachel doesn’t think she’s ever been more in love.

When Santana’s ring is ready the following week, Rachel proposes anyway. She had a plan, after all, and Santana getting there first wasn’t any reason for it to be abandoned.


	20. Quinn/Santana - The One During 100 (NC-17)

Santana bursts through the door to the ladies room, not caring that it bangs loudly shut behind her, and immediately checks the two stalls inside to make sure she and Quinn are the only two in the room. That done, she turns to Quinn, folding her arms over her chest and saying, “What, exactly, are you doing?”

Quinn pauses just for a second in reapplying her lipstick to glance at Santana through the mirror. “I don’t know what you mean.”

There’s an urge to roll her eyes which Santana just barely manages to suppress; Quinn’s dumb, but she’s not that dumb. “Mr. Douchebag Junior out there. Don’t tell me he’s where you see yourself in five years?”

"So what if I do?"

Santana follows the motion of Quinn’s hand as she slips her lipstick back into her purse, then watches as she turns around, facing Santana and raising an eyebrow in a defiant glare.

"You’re becoming your mother and it’s pathetic to watch."

"I don’t see how—"

No. Just—Shut up, Quinn. For once I’m actually trying to do you a favour. You deserve better than that, and I wish you’d get your head out of your ass long enough to realise it.”

"Fuck you."

"Already did." Santana grins. "I was kind of hoping I’d fucked your bad taste in men right out of you while I was at  it."

"He’s not—"

"He’s fucking awful and you know it. Why did you even bring him here? Hoping to make someone jealous? I hope it wasn’t me, because that ship sailed when you stopped answering your phone."

Quinn has the good grace to look ashamed at that, but it still doesn’t stop her from replying a split-second later. “You’d be ready for round three in a second if I so much as looked like I was interested.”

“I think you’ve got that the wrong way around,” Santana says, taking a couple of steps forward, until she’s well and truly in Quinn’s personal space. Quinn’s breath catches, and Santana just knows. “Maybe it takes more than two times to fuck that bad taste in men away.”

“You wouldn’t—”

“Stop me.”

Santana’s lips press against Quinn’s at just about the same moment Quinn’s hands fist into the front of Santana’s dress, causing them to stumble into each other. Santana wants to laugh, even make a snarky comment, but she can’t, because Quinn’s mouth opens against hers, and she tastes of red wine and freshly applied lipstick, and something Santana remembers from before. It’s something that leaves her dizzy with want, and Santana moans into the kiss. Her hands slide over the curve of Quinn’s hips and downwards, squeezing at Quinn’s ass, and trying to urge her up onto the counter.

Quinn breaks their kiss just long enough to gasp, “Not out here,” and then her mouth is back against Santana’s and she’s walking them backwards into one of the stalls.

Somehow the door closes behind them, and then Santana’s pressing Quinn against it, hiking Quinn’s dress upwards with one hand and parting her legs with a well-placed thigh.

They don’t have long—not when there are people outside waiting for them— but from the wild look in Quinn’s eyes, and they way she’s already brazenly rocking against Santana’s leg, it’s not going to take long at all.

“I can feel how wet you are,” Santana says, gripping Quinn’s hips and guiding her movements. “Tell me, how often have you gotten wet thinking about me, about us, how hard I made you come?”

“How often have you?” Quinn bites back.

Santana ignores her question, because it’s more times than she’d care to admit out loud, and instead chooses to dip her head, sucking harshly at Quinn’s neck. Quinn arches her neck and swears quietly, and Santana sucks harder, stopping only when Quinn pushes weakly at her shoulder, hissing, “Don’t you dare leave a mark.”

As much as she likes the idea of Quinn bearing a reminder of her touch for days to come, Santana knows she can’t, and it’s with no small amount of bitterness that she pull back, and then locks eyes with Quinn, almost staring her down, daring her to stop this, even though she knows it’s not going to happen.

Her fingers find Quinn slick and hot and they both moan.

“Look at you,” Santana says. “Desperate. I bet you’d even beg me if I made you wait long enough for it.”

Quinn starts to shake her head, but then Santana’s fingers press inside and she can’t do anything but let her head fall back against the door and gasp Santana’s name.

She’s loud, almost too loud, and Santana wishes they were somewhere else, somewhere where she could make Quinn scream. She curls her fingers, puts her whole body into fucking Quinn, feeling an answering pulse between her own thighs grow the closer she knows Quinn is to coming.

And then Quinn’s reaching out, fingers digging desperately against Santana’s upper arms as her hips jerk and then stiffen, and Santana is reminded again how amazing it feels to be responsible for making Quinn Fabray totally lose control.

~

Quinn washes her hands, straightens out her hair. In Santana’s opinion it does absolutely nothing to hide the fact that she looks like she’s just had the best orgasm of her life — or at least since the last time she was naked and in Santana’s company.

Their eyes meet briefly through the mirror, just like ten minutes before, and Santana starts to say Quinn’s name.

“We shouldn’t have done that,” Quinn says, interrupting anything Santana might have though to say. “You shouldn’t have done that.”

Before Santana even has a chance to respond, to protest Quinn’s divesting all the blame for something she had every opportunity to stop, Quinn pushes through the bathroom door, and Santana’s left standing alone, still slightly breathless, definitely turned on, and wondering what the fuck just happened, and why she cares so much that Quinn just walked away.


End file.
